“Um, I work here,” I say, starting to feel a bit uncomfortable, particularly as people are starting to listen in on our conversation.
“What do you mean? I thought you worked with Taylor?”
“Not anymore, Nicola. Things didn’t work out,” I say softly, not really wanting to go into any more details. Trying to distract her, I move on to safer ground. “So you and your friends have come in for some cake?” I paste a fake smile on my face and do my best to sound cheerful and unaffected.
Nicola nods, and I can see a million questions running through her mind, but she is obviously too polite to probe further. “Well, let’s see what we can do for you. Which ones do you guys fancy?” I point to the basket and wait while they make their choices.
“Did you make these, Abby?” Nicola asks.
“Yeah, I hope you enjoy them.” The girls decide what they would like, and I bag them up, telling them they are on the house. Nicola tries to protest but I insist, and they head off, bags in hand. When they are out the door I wait a couple of moments before excusing myself to use the staff bathroom. As I sit on the toilet seat, I realise my hands are shaking and my breaths are coming out shaky.
I hear a soft knock, and Bea is asking me if I am all right. I try to put as much brightness as I can muster into my voice and reply that I am fine and will be out in a moment. Bea stays put for a couple of seconds as if she is debating whether to leave me alone or not before she quietly walks away. I take a few steadying breaths and plaster on a cheerful grin before returning to the counter to help serve.
The shop keeps me busy for the remainder of the day. I am grateful that I haven’t got time to think and dwell on Nicola’s visit, but I know in the back of my mind that she will probably be ringing Taylor at some point. I am not sure if I want him to know where I am or not, but then I remember the tracker he placed on my phone and remind myself to work out how to uninstall it.
Bea keeps a close eye on me, and I can tell she is troubled. I sense she is debating between asking me what on earth is going on versus keeping quiet and leaving me to it. Keeping quiet seems to win out as she doesn’t say anything apart from her normal chatter, but after we have all finished cleaning for the day and Lorna heads home, she shakes her head at me before pulling me in for a hug. I almost unravel in her arms, but I sternly tell myself to keep it together; I can’t let her know just how broken I am feeling inside. I can barely deal with it in my head, let alone have a conversation about it.
My phone rings just as I am stepping into my kitchen. I glance at the screen and feel completely shocked when I see my dad’s face on my caller ID. It takes me a moment to compose myself before I answer softly, “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, sweetie. How are you doing?”
“Um, I am ok. You?”
“We are good. Listen, love, your mum and I have an unexpected break in filming, so we are planning on going through Nonna’s stuff tomorrow as we don’t have much time left. Would you be able to join us?”
“Um, Dad, I don’t think Mum will want me there.” I hear my voice crack, and I hope my dad won’t notice.
“Sweetheart, your mum is grieving at the moment. Her anger is not at you, but I am sorry she took it out on you. That wasn’t fair.”
I swallow, trying to compose myself. “Okay, I’ll be there. What time do you want me to meet you both?”
We finish making arrangements for tomorrow, and then I hang up. I find myself staring at the ceiling, willing myself not to cry. I have no idea how my mum is going to react when she finds out I have lost my job and am now actually working at the place she is so angry about. Not to mention I am living in a flat that Nonna has furnished. What if she wants stuff back? What if she contests Nonna’s will? Where will that leave me? Round and round my thoughts swirl until I can take no more and the ice melts, the dam breaks and the tears flood down my face.
When my sobs finally subside, the numbness returns, and I find myself staring at my kitchen blankly. I know I need to eat, but I haven’t got the energy to prepare anything, so I walk away and climb into bed instead. I don’t even have the inclination to get undressed, so I just pull the covers over me and wait.
The Twenty-Fourth
I am standing in Nonna’s kitchen, desperately trying to avoid looking at either the spot where she died or at my mother, who is currently raging in Italian. Despite my heritage I have never managed to master much beyond the odd holiday phrase, so I really don’t have a clue about what she is saying to me.
My dad popped out for a pint of milk, and it was at that point she started grilling me about what I was going to do about Bread. I am a terrible liar, so I came clean and told her my situation, minus the stuff like sleeping with my boss, his psycho brother and the all-round fucked-up-ness that is my life currently. Needless to say it was like waving a rag at a bull, and I am now standing here waiting for her to calm down. Which doesn’t seem like it is going to happen anytime soon.
“Gina, just shut the hell up, will you?” My dad’s normally quiet voice booms across the room, and we both stare at him, silence descending at last. “Stop for a minute and look at what you are doing to our daughter. She is shaking like a leaf.”
I have never heard my dad like this, and I don’t know what to say, and it has clearly left my mother speechless. He walks over to her and forces her to look into his eyes. “Gina, this is not Abigail’s fault. I know you are hurting, but this is not right. Nonna’s legacy was what she decided. It is not for us to question it.” My mother closes her eyes briefly before opening them again and nodding her acquiescence before adding, “Fine, let’s just get this over with.”
As I spend the next couple of hours sorting through Nonna’s things, putting aside things my mother wants to keep, making a pile for charity and another of things to sell, I start to wonder about my mother’s animosity towards me. Certainly, I would never have awarded her Mother of the Year, but she has never behaved like this to me before. And then it hits me like a ton of bricks: she blames me for not saving Nonna. It is bad enough that I have been blaming myself all this time, but to know that my own mother also holds me responsible is gut-wrenching.
Bile rises in my throat, and I find myself tearing down the hallway to make it to the bathroom before emptying what little contents I had out my stomach. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve so much pain, but I wish someone would give me a break. I just don’t know how much more I can take.
As I sit on the cold bathroom tiles, trying to calm myself, my mother appears. All I want is for her to give me a hug, but instead all I feel is her contempt. I finally break and look up at her, knowing that what I am about to hear will probably destroy our relationship. “You blame me, don’t you, Mum?”
“Yes.” That one word comes out as a harsh whisper, and before I know it, I am scrabbling to my feet and running out the front door with no particular destination in mind. I run and I run, my lungs and my legs aching until neither have the strength to continue. I find myself sitting on the bench where I read Nonna’s letter, and I stare out to sea.
My phone starts to ring, and when I see it is my dad, I cancel the call. I am empty, a husk of the person I used to be, and I just don’t know if I will ever come back from this. I am not sure I even want to try. The man I gave my heart and soul to destroyed it. I am worthless. No one wanted me before Taylor, and who the hell would want me now? Even my own mother despises me.
The wind whips and rain starts to lash down, but I sit there, unable to move. The weather matches my mood, and I find some comfort in its wildness as my limbs start to go numb from the cold. Some semblance of self-preservation forces me to move, and I stumble back to my flat, grateful that Bread is not open and I don’t have to face Bea and Andreas. My phone continues to ring intermittently, but I cancel each call until I eventually turn it off.
My body aches as I shiver in my wet clothes, and I find myself stripping them off in a puddle on the bathroom floor. I stare at my reflection desolately, the memories of
the last time I stood in front of a mirror stark in my mind. I still don’t see what Taylor claimed to see, and obviously it was all a lie, as look where we are now. When I can’t stand looking at myself any longer, I take a hot shower in an attempt to ease the chill from the marrow of my bones.
My bed provides no comfort, and I spend the night once again staring at the ceiling. I hear someone knocking at some point, but I ignore the sound and eventually whoever it was goes away.
The Twenty-Fifth
I must have fallen asleep at some point because I am woken by a pounding on the door. Wrapping my gown round me, I make my way downstairs to find the postman with a registered letter bearing my name. Odd as no one knows yet that I live here.
I make my way upstairs and pop the kettle on before ripping open the envelope. The first thing I take in is the Hudson International letterhead, and I find my heart beating a rapid tattoo. It takes me a while to digest the words, and it is not until I see the cheque enclosed for ten thousand pounds that the penny drops.
I am being paid off. The thought sends red-hot fury coursing through my veins, and I start to shake. Of course, in black and white it is all very amicable and spelt out as a corporate responsibility as I was out of my probation period, but I am reading between the lines and I know what is happening here.
Before I fully comprehend what I am doing, I find myself donning some clothes and pulling on my duffel coat, heading out the door with rage fuelling my every thought.
Standing outside Hudson, my resolve starts to falter. Am I really the person who can storm in there and act out even one of the many scenarios I have been running through my head since setting out on this journey? I take a deep breath and steel myself, allowing all the hurt to bubble to the surface and remind me of my purpose, a suit of armour for what I need to do.
With one final breath I push through the doors, striding past reception without a second glance. I take the stairs, adrenaline pumping through my veins, readying me for confrontation. But instead of my normal mode of flight, today I choose fight. I spot Patrice, Taylor’s assistant, and I stride up to her, growling, “Is he in?”
Patrice looks at me in shock. I am guessing I probably look fairly feral, so I am not surprised when it takes her a couple of seconds before she stammers, “Y...Yes.” Without a pause I spin on my heels, open Taylor’s door and slam it shut behind me, the door rattling in its frame.
Taylor is on the phone, and when he sees me, he calmly says into the phone, “Phil, I have something I have to deal with. I’ll call you back.”
I won’t deny it. His words sting, but they are simply fuel for my fire. “You fucking prick, Taylor!” I spit out at him, the venom dripping in my voice. “All of it, us, what the fuck was it for? Was it a game? Was any of it real, huh?”
Taylor sits there calmly appraising me, his eyes hooded and cold, and this only infuriates me further. “You made me think you care. I give myself and my heart to you, and in the end, when I am too much of a problem for you to deal with, you get rid of me. And now you think you can ease your conscience by throwing money at me like a…a fucking whore. Is that what you think I am, Taylor? A fucking whore?” I am screaming now, and I know I am close to tears.
I pull out the cheque and rip it to pieces. “I might not be much, Taylor Hudson, but I am not about to be paid off by you. You can take your money and all the shit you bought me and shove it up your arse.” I slam the key to my old flat down on Taylor’s desk. “You have a week to clear everything out before I tell the landlord he can keep it. You do not fucking own me, Taylor. I will not owe you anything!”
I make it out of the building and across the road into Starbucks before I find a quiet corner to let the tears fall. A presence looms above me and I start, hastily wiping away my tears. Pulling over a chair, Michelle sits down opposite me and slides a latte across the table. “What the hell is going on, Abby? Where the hell did you disappear to?” Her voice is quiet, but I can see the concern and determination in her eyes.
I dissolve into fresh tears, and it takes me several minutes before I am able to pull myself together enough to try and talk. I take a sip of the coffee, trying to gather my thoughts, not knowing where the hell to start.
“It’s over, Chelle.” My sobs start up again. “I was just too much to deal with, so he quit.” I can’t get any more words out, so Michelle simply wraps her arms around me and lets me cry. When I can talk again, I begin by apologising. “I am so sorry, Chelle, for being such a crappy friend, for not talking to you. I just…just didn’t know what to say…” I trail off, the look of sympathy in her eyes threatening to crush me once again. “My Nonna, she left me a bakery in her will, so I have been working there.” I sidestep the fact that I was made redundant and tell Michelle a little about what I have been doing and how my cakes have been taking off.
Michelle glances at her watch, and I suddenly realise that she has probably slipped out of the office and needs to get back. I reassure her that I am okay, and we chat for a couple of more minutes before she heads off, but not before she says, “Abigail James, answer my calls from now on. Please! You are my friend, and I can’t stand to see you in pain, so just let me help you through this.” With a last hug she turns and hurries back across the road.
In an abstract way, I start to wonder what the hell people must be saying about me; the office gossip must be rife about the weird quiet girl who just went all psycho on the boss. I let out a hollow laugh, down the rest of my coffee and head back towards the train station, realising it is not even midday.
A text from Bea interrupts my inner turmoil, asking if I am okay as I am not home and didn’t come in this morning. Annoyed with myself that I let her down, I send her a quick text apologising and saying I had an emergency in London. There is no way I can go home now until the shop is shut; I simply can’t face any more enquiring looks or sympathy.
Once in Brighton I find myself heading back to my bench and spend the next few hours staring morosely out to sea as I contemplate the utter mess that is currently my life. When I know for sure the shop will be shut, I make my way back home, stopping in at an off-licence on the way for a bottle of vodka. Tonight I just want to forget.
My flat is too quiet when I get home, so I plug my MP3 player into its docking station and crank up the music before pouring myself a healthy slug of vodka, which I down in one go, the alcohol burning my throat and warming my stomach. I pour myself another shot and slowly start to feel the numbness spreading through my body. I am such a lightweight, the combination of lack of food and sleep means that the third shot has me reeling, and I find myself screaming the lyrics to Limp Bizkit’s ‘Break Stuff’, wishing that I could break Taylor’s face.
The fourth shot makes the anger start to subside, and instead the hurt and the pain start to resurface. I find myself listening to Evanescence’s ‘Going Under’, and the pain seems to mirror my own swirling thoughts, and I can’t help but wonder about whether I can survive this, whether I can make it through intact or whether I am just going to drown in my pain.
The pain still won’t go away with the fifth shot, and I make the decision that the agony is too much for me to bear. With utter calmness I find myself running a bath before heading to the kitchen to retrieve a knife. At last I am back in control. No one can tell me what to do; this is all me. I slug back one final shot before settling myself back into the tub.
I hold the knife to my wrists and wonder, in an abstract way, how much this is going to hurt. Momentarily I feel guilt about who will find me, but I quash that thought immediately. The tension builds, and I start to wonder if I can go through with it, but then I allow the memories to start flooding back. The coldness in Taylor’s eyes when he told me I was surplus to requirements. The hate in my mother’s eyes as she blamed me for Nonna’s death. Nonna’s body, cold on the floor.
I feel the knife slice into my skin, but instead of pain all I feel is relief, sweet relief, as the emotions are released. I work on both wrists, determine
d to be the good girl that I am and do a good job, and then all there is, is the darkness as I fall unconscious.
“Oh sweet Jesus. Abby, what the fuck?” I hear Taylor’s voice, far away. Hands shake my body. “Come on, baby, hold on. Please, Abby, just hold on for me.”
“Please, I need an ambulance now….”
“…suicide…”
I feel my body dragged from the water. Hands on my wrists. Sirens and lights. And then darkness descends.
Cool air. Bright lights. A thousand voices issuing commands. Taylor shouting at me to hold on.
Darkness.
The Twenty-Seventh
I slowly climb out of the darkness, and the first thing I notice is a steady beeping sound. I can feel crisp sheets and an ache in my wrists. My mind flicks back, and I remember the drinking, the singing, the cutting of my wrists. With a sigh I realise that I survived, and now I am probably going to be in a world of trouble.
Taylor! Shit, pieces start coming back to me, and I am sure that I heard Taylor’s voice. My heart starts to hammer, and the steady beep increases in pace until I hear someone enter the room. Efficient, cool fingers touch my wrists, well, the parts that aren’t bandaged up, and I hear quiet murmurings. I try to open my eyes, but nothing seems to be cooperating. A warm, sluggish feeling creeps up my limbs, and then once again the darkness descends.
The Twenty-Eighth
Beep. Beep. Beep. I want to shout at the fucking alarm for waking me up; I don’t have to be at work until seven, so why did I set it so early? I crack my eyes open, expecting to see my bedroom ceiling, but instead I am confronted by the antiseptic smell of hospital, the beep from a heart monitor that appears to be attached to me and a slumped body at my side. I try to shift myself, but pain shoots through my wrists, causing me to yelp.
Book One: Thirty Days, Book 1 Page 17